


The White Wolf

by Deus_Ex



Series: Neither Wolves Nor Witchers Feel [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Author Can't Tag, Bisexual Disaster, Character Study, Established Relationship, Geralt Can't Use Words, Grouchy Geralt, M/M, Nightmares, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Role Reversal, Sleepless nights, Trust, Unspoken Doesn't Mean Unsaid, Unspoken things, White Wolf - Freeform, Wild Wolves, Witcher Trials, everyone is bi fight me, injured geralt, what are feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22246414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deus_Ex/pseuds/Deus_Ex
Summary: “You’ll see,” she mused, grinning into her cup of tea, still steaming even hours after she’d brewed it.Mages.“Today.  Tomorrow.  A hundred years from now.  You’ll see, one day, and then you’ll be able to trust him, too.”“I do trust him!” Jaskier fired back.  Yennefer only continued to give him that same, deadpan, knowing smirk.“You trust him,” she corrected, “but not the Wolf.  And you’re smart to do so.  The Wolf is wild, unpredictable, and cannot be chained.  The Wolf is part of him, though, as much as your songs are a part of you and my magic is a part of me.  You will, one day, need to trust the Wolf as well.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Neither Wolves Nor Witchers Feel [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1601413
Comments: 49
Kudos: 913





	The White Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> My brain is a mess and I hate this, therefore it's time to post it. Companion/follow-up to A Tame Wolf but can be read on its own.

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off me hands!”_

It stings. It really does. But wolves are wild, and wild animals are unpredictable. Sometimes they bite the hand that feeds. Jaskier tries not to take it personally.

***

Geralt had hung around at the base of the mountain. In the tavern that held Jaskier’s scent. Their eyes met across the bar as Jaskier played for those present, earning his keep for the night and maybe even tomorrow with how generous the people were being. Jaskier faltered then, and Geralt immediately ducked his head and buried his face in his ale. Throughout the remainder of the evening, Jaskier caught him picking at the plate in front of him, succeeding in choking down his food eventually but clearly having a job of accomplishing the task. The Wolf studiously kept his gaze averted, as if ashamed of his actions and the reactions they had caused. It was good enough for Jaskier. When the bar had emptied save for the Witcher, he settled up his own tab, quietly covered Geralt’s, and then pocketed his earnings for the night. With business settled, he approached the table and boldly but gently reached out to tug at Geralt’s sleeve. The Wolf looked up at him, an edge missing from this amber eyes; Jaskier nodded to him, and the Wolf immediately rose from his chair and followed him upstairs. _Witchers can’t feel._ Bullshit.

Jaskier shuts the door behind them. Tenderly strips Geralt of his weapons and armor. Coaxes him to sit next to him on the bed. Kisses him softly, slowly, until he finally melts into his hands. He stubbornly refuses to let go when Geralt moves to leave once or twice, and is finally rewarded with his acquiescence. Laying down on the bed, for once a decent size, Geralt rests his head against Jaskier’s hip and closes his eyes and tangles his fingers in Jaskier’s clothes, and Jaskier considers that this is the closest he’ll ever get to an apology and an admission of wrongdoing. Yes, Witchers could feel, but they were damn terrible at it.

The next day, they rode out together. Jaskier doesn’t question where or how the second horse has appeared, but the thoughtfulness is touching. Perhaps now he’ll finally be out of excuses to keep putting off buying a bedroll and other such supplies.

***

They’ve never discussed it, Jaskier mused, but they’ve reached an agreement on the matter nonetheless. They were far from exclusive. Hardly partners. Marriage was absolutely out of the question. The arrangement was mostly out of necessity; they were often parted for uncomfortable stretches of time, during which they each felt the need. Or they were in a town a bit smaller and more inclined to other people’s businesses and even more inclined to have an opinion on it. Jaskier was approached by many a damsel that he bedded, and Geralt could sometimes be found in female company as well. But these were fleeting instances of carnal passion, never anything more: with one exception.

Jaskier had never believed Geralt to be a tame wolf, but seeing him with Yennefer was almost enough to change his mind. The Witcher was simply enraptured by the ravenette mage, willing to stake it all on her. And she seemed to feel some burning desire for him, too, but in a different fashion. Jaskier got the sense that, while he knew Geralt and Yennefer were bad for each other, only one of them was also aware of that fact.

There was no doubt in Jaskier’s mind that Geralt loved Yennefer more. But there was also no doubt that, if it came down to long-term commitment and trust, Geralt would come back to him every time. It was a strange and difficult place to exist, and Jaskier tried not to resent Yennefer too much for it. So far, she had yet to actively and intentionally harm Geralt. Until she did, she and Jaskier could exist at an uneasy truce.

***

Geralt always wakes up before Jaskier. The bard has always wondered why; they usually go to sleep at about the same time. Is it Geralt’s body, mutated to the point that sleep was no longer something he needed? Did he still need to sleep, just not as much? Or was it his mind that was the trouble, restless and refusing to quiet? Did he prefer to move at night and sleep during the day, and was attempting to exist on a human schedule for...whatever reason? _(It’s not for your sake, don’t be foolish, you’ll only get your hopes up and then you’ll end up hurt, again, like always, he’s a damn wolf, what do you expect-?)_

They’ve simply accepted that they’re going to sleep together by now. After years of sharing beds for cost, warmth, or convenience, it wasn’t so difficult, but now, with another few years of sleeping together behind them, it wasn’t even a question. Somehow, Jaskier likes to think, Geralt sleeps a bit better when they’re together. It can’t be the warmth, no, Geralt is always hot to the touch, like something lit a fire under his skin that keeps trying to claw its way out. It can’t be the security, Jaskier is quite useless in confrontation of any sort, really. So then what-?

Geralt bolts awake then, violently. Well, violently, for Geralt. He’s so stoic and contained and controlled that his version of a violent waking is for his eyes to snap open, revealing the glowing yellow orbs that seem phosphorescent under the new moon, and gasps sharply through his nose as a tremor wracks his body. Immediately, Jaskier wakes as well, scrambling a bit as he sticks in the blankets, but he manages to sit up and inquire, “Geralt?”

At first, Geralt doesn’t answer. He never does. Rarely. Occasionally. Sometimes. Infrequently. It’s a surprise when he does, is Jaskier’s point. Even more surprising if the response is on-topic and straightforward and somewhat appropriate. It blows Jaskier’s mind when the above criteria are met, and the response is also devoid of a noncommittal grunt or Geralt’s favorite word, “Fuck.” And anyway, Geralt has never given him a response longer than about two sentences.

So when Geralt’s eyes drift away from him, flickering distractedly across the forest they’re bedded down in and over Roach, picketed nearby, and through the stars drifting overhead, Jaskier gives him up as a bad job and starts to shift, a bit anxiously, towards getting back in bed. “Come on, Geralt,” he prompts, invitingly lifting the edge of the blanket. It’s cold, but Geralt is streaked with sweat, and his gaze is still so far away. Is he fever dreaming? Can Witchers run fevers-?

“Do you know what they do to a Witcher to improve his eyesight?”

Jaskier can feel his heart in his throat then, freezes where he is, stares at Geralt incredulously; he’s never heard Geralt reference his past. Ever. At all. In the entire time he’s known him. That was one absolute that Jaskier could certainly apply.

“Did you know that it doesn’t always work?”

Jaskier can feel the chills now, running down his spine, skittering up his arms, crawling down his legs, creeping up his neck, tickling his scalp. He swallows hard against the incoming horror, feeling it approaching like winds before a rainstorm. Pulling the blanket closer around himself, Jaskier suddenly feels chilled straight into his core, like he’s swallowed a bowl of ice chips in one go and now the cold is part of him.

“We suffered for days.” Jaskier almost choked when he heard Geralt speak again. Fortunately, he was able to strangle the noise that wanted to come out, choking it back just in time for Geralt to continue, staring up at the sky with something unreadable in his face as his voice became deeper, rougher, gravelier, like river stones being tossed in the current. “Most of us didn’t survive. Seven out of every ten of us died…

“Do you know what it’s like to scream until you have no voice…? Do you know what it’s like to fight restraints so hard you break your own bones…? Do you know what it’s like...to have your blood set on fire...to have your bones broken thousands of times...to have your eyes drenched in acid...to have nails driven into your ears…to have your skin flayed from your body, one layer at a time...to beg, to plead, to cry, to know that it’s all fucking worthless, but being unable to help yourself from doing it anyway?

“...do you know what it’s like to be unmade?”

And Geralt meets his eyes, finally, when he asks that final question, and Jaskier has no idea what it’s like, no idea how to respond, no idea what to do or what to think, only that he feels like he’s being shattered, ripped apart inside, and while it’s nothing on Geralt’s pain, to feel all that and still have to bear the cross of screaming for a mother who would never come, he knows that he suffers in this moment, too. And he doesn’t say anything, really, or ask any more of Geralt. He only slides across the ground to him, damp with dew and cool against his flesh and thin clothing, and throws the blanket over Geralt while he leans over and kisses him, feels Geralt gratefully fall into his mouth as he turns to get closer, and Jaskier can breathe again, because he finally managed to do something right.

Geralt sleeps with his head on Jaskier’s shoulder. Always. Usually an arm thrown over his chest or abdomen. Tonight, Jaskier also wraps his arms around his Witcher, his Wolf, cards his fingers through his hair, stays awake until he is absolutely certain beyond all shadow of a doubt that Geralt has drifted off again. The next morning is the first time he’s awoken before Geralt, and he finds the Wolf still sleeping peacefully on his chest. When Geralt does come to, Jaskier pretends it’s only been a minute or two.

***

They part sometimes. Days, weeks, months, years. They come back to each other in due time, like winds blown together, and they remain tangled for a time until they are swept away again. Geralt doesn’t seem overjoyed to see him, but Jaskier doesn’t mind. By now, he understands that, if Geralt didn’t care for him, the Witcher would simply never allow himself to be found. Instead, he turns up repeatedly wherever Jaskier happens to be whenever he can steal some time for their paths to converge again. He never remarks on how Jaskier changes in their time apart.

***

_Do you know what it’s like to be unmade?_

_Yes._

Jaskier knows he can never hold a candle to Yennefer. He selfishly thirsts for Geralt anyway.

***

_More beast than man. Can’t feel human emotion. No better than the monsters they hunt._

Jaskier had never understood where these rumors came from until he saw Geralt properly after a hunt.

He’d had to move in the dark, and alone. Jaskier had waited with the townspeople, all of whom were nervous and mistrustful. After several lukewarm receptions to his songs, Jaskier had given up and hunkered down to wait, the bread tasting like soot and the ale tasting like piss. The sand in the hourglass moved obligingly slowly, torturing him with the resolute impassage of time as he anxiously waited for the return of the White Wolf. The townspeople gave up halfway through the night, muttering under their breath dismissively and writing Geralt off as dead or a liar or a coward. Jaskier said nothing, only continued staring into his ale, which was also obligingly not shrinking despite his repeated efforts to choke it down. If he said it out loud, “This is torture!” Geralt was sure to spring through the door and tell him a thing or two about torture. But the words stuck in his throat; his mouth was dry, his voice was frozen, his mind was troubled. There would be no sleep tonight.

After nearly nodding off at the bar twice, Jaskier finally allowed the annoyed barmaid to shoo him off to his room so she could close down for the night. The candles winked out, one by one, but by then, Jaskier had reached the top of the stairs and ducked through the door that led to the first floor of rooms above the inn. The one he had for the night was the last on the right, with a spectacular view of the moon, a slim crescent hanging in the sky amidst a backdrop of pinprick stars.

Jaskier was swept off his feet the moment he shut the door.

At first, a flash of fear caught him: had the townspeople decided that, with Geralt gone, he would be easy prey? Had someone taken an issue with his song,downstairs, and decided to deal with him after hours? Was this another jealous husband or vengeful son or enraged father or protective brother? But then, as they turned, the man’s hair caught the light, revealing it to be bone-white...but Geralt’s eyes were not his.

Gone was the beautiful amber that Jaskier so often praised. In its place, a void of blackness, leaking into the surrounding skin, the color and texture of chalk. Geralt was not himself, that was for sure, but the fear evaporated as soon as Jaskier saw that silver mane.

“Enough!”

Geralt froze, like the sound of Jaskier’s voice had broken some trance he’d fallen into. No one was more surprised than Jaskier, who had expected to have his throat ripped out for the noise. But Geralt was still looking at him, curiously, with his head cocked like he was studying Jaskier or something about him. Seizing his chance, before courage left him again, Jaskier repeated, “Enough,” and watched as the Wolf blinked, processed, considered, decided, and let him down off the wall he’d been pinned to and backed away. Just like that, the fear was gone: but Jaskier couldn’t hide or deny the fact that it had come. Once again, the bitter reminder was driven into him: he’s not a tame wolf.

***

The first time he ever mounted the White Wolf was a complete and total accident.

So often, Geralt would take him from behind. Or, if he was feeling slightly more human, less afraid of intimacy, he would lay back and allow Jaskier to ride him, nails raising pink welts in his skin that would be gone by the morning and mouth gracing him with purple flowers to meet the same fate. Now, with Geralt on his back, legs splayed, Jaskier’s face between his thighs, the bard assumed it would be another such night. Letting Geralt slide from his mouth for a moment, Jaskier surged up to claim his lips in a heated kiss, reaching down with the hand that wasn’t braced against Geralt’s chest to take him in hand. Coaxing, caressing, Jaskier paid every inch of Geralt due worship, but his attention was snared when the pads of his fingers caught on Geralt’s rim and the man _moaned_ into his mouth, the sound sinful in a way Jaskier had never heard from Geralt before.

Without thinking, he let his finger sink into Geralt’s body, and _gods,_ if only the Common Speech had words to describe the beauty that followed! Geralt arched off the bed, chest and arms straining as his abs quivered, but he fought and won to remain still and not disrupt Jaskier’s hand. Grinning then, Jaskier had leaned up and nipped at his throat, playing with fire, and asked, “Shall I take that as a yes?”

Geralt had nodded, apparently unable to summon words at all, and Jaskier had opened up the jar of oil he had been planning on using for himself and instead slicked his own hand. Geralt’s body took him eagerly, gladly, and when he replaced his hand on the Witcher’s chest, the Wolf’s much-larger hand skated up his arm to cup his shoulder and drag him down closer. Sliding his knees forward to take his weight, Jaskier obliged and captured Geralt’s lips again, just as he pressed another finger into Geralt’s body. Muscles contracting, clamping down on his hand, Geralt vocalized again and Jaskier swore he could finish just on that noise, knowing that he was the one taking Geralt apart, that no one else was allowed to see him like this, have him like this, even Yennefer-

With that thought firmly in mind, Jaskier took his time gracing Geralt with every pleasure he could conceive of. Spreading him slowly, gently, working him up to three fingers before neither of them could take it anymore, and then indulging them both with the unity they’d been craving for hours. At first, Jaskier could not find it in himself to move. It was less about the sensation and more about who it was and how it was: just knowing it was Geralt was enough of an aphrodisiac for Jaskier that the stamina he bragged about so often was threatening to fail him. Forcing himself to relax and take slower, deeper breaths helped, and by the time he felt his composure returning, Geralt was writhing underneath him, arms snaking around his waist, bucking into his hips, all but begging Jaskier to _move already._

Jaskier obliged. In rather impressive fashion, if he said so himself. Jaskier had nothing on Geralt in terms of size, but he more than made up for it with skill. Ah, the ballads he could write about this moment! The moment Geralt finally released between them, the way he clung to Jaskier as he did, the way he breathed out his name like it had been torn from him by primordial force, the way he buried his face in Jaskier’s chest and, for once, seemed to have a human heartbeat and pace of breath, the definition in his muscles as he shuddered in the aftermath of his climax, the unusually open quality to his eyes then, the way his lips were flushed nearly to pink and slightly swollen from their kiss, and Jaskier could have gone on until he was blue in the face and still never covered it all.

Throughout the entire evening, he never once suffered the delusion that he was in control. The Wolf had trusted him not to take more than was offered. The thought was mind-numbing. Surely no one else, in the entirety of Geralt’s life, had ever been trusted with this sight. There was hardly any decision to be made when presented with the choice of surrendering control and laying with Geralt like this or maintaining it and stepping back. Jaskier hardly minded: he would gladly pay any price to have the privilege of seeing him like that again. How often did the Wolf bow?

***

By now, it had been established that Geralt trusted Jaskier more than most. From time to time, little moments would shine through, reminding Jaskier of that trust. And then others would come along, highlighting how little Geralt trusted the rest of the world. “Do you think he allows anyone else to dress his wounds?” Yennefer had asked, shrewdly eyeing Jaskier as the bard sighed and moaned into a cup of ale. Destiny had indeed brought all three of them together, but Geralt had left to go take care of a basilisk that he’d been contracted to kill, leaving Jaskier and Yennefer alone together for a few hours. When Jaskier had turned distant and morose almost immediately, Yennefer had made short work of the why and started addressing it ruthlessly and mercilessly.

“I know he beds you as well,” she continued, without an ounce of shame even as Jaskier’s gaze snapped to hers and his face flushed a royal shade of magenta. “How many people can say they’ve done that more than once?”

“Leave off,” Jaskier grouched, but Yennefer only laughed.

“You’ll see,” she mused, grinning into her cup of tea, still steaming even hours after she’d brewed it. _Mages._ “Today. Tomorrow. A hundred years from now. You’ll see, one day, and then you’ll be able to trust him, too.”

“I do trust him!” Jaskier fired back. Yennefer only continued to give him that same, deadpan, knowing smirk.

“You trust him,” she corrected, “but not the Wolf. And you’re smart to do so. The Wolf is wild, unpredictable, and cannot be chained. The Wolf is part of him, though, as much as your songs are a part of you and my magic is a part of me. You will, one day, need to trust the Wolf as well.”

Jaskier clearly wanted to retort with something poetic and witty and sharp; he opened his mouth, took in an intentional breath, eyes alight and expression indignant. Yennefer hardly cared for it, though, which was just as well. Just then, Geralt slammed open the door and stomped in, dragging what appeared to be an enormous lizard’s head in a bag behind him.

Jaskier bolted to his feet, mouth still agape, resembling a fish out of water in the flurry of motion he became as he warred between running to Geralt and running away from Geralt. Slicked in blood, heavily favoring one leg, holding his side, Geralt swore, threw the bag with the dead basilisk’s head behind the door, and stomped over to the hearth, where he congealed in a puddle on the floor in front of the fire, groaned, and began to unbuckle his leather armor while lying on his back.

“May I ask what happened?” Yennefer inquired smoothly, sipping at her tea.

“Bit me,” Geralt grunted, maneuvering out of his shoulder guards with difficulty and a flinch.

“You’re too fast for that,” Yennefer bluntly retorted.

“Had me pinned to the wall,” Geralt muttered, wriggling out of his jerkin and tossing it aside. Jaskier shivered at the wet _slap_ it gave off when it collided with the stone of the hearth. “My options were to cut its leg off, get free, and attack it again, or let it strike at me and skewer it when it did. It went for me, so I put my sword up its nose. But its teeth caught me on the way down.”

“So it didn’t bite you,” Yennefer concluded.

“Result is the same, there are still fucking teeth embedded in my ribs.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Yennefer sighed. “This is going to hurt. A lot.”

“Spare me,” Geralt replied, voice dripping with sarcasm until it was punctuated by an agonized groan as he wrenched out one of the smaller teeth on his own. The saber-like tooth clattered to the floor with a surprisingly-heavy depth to it, and came to rest on the rug Geralt had courteously avoided collapsing on, as if to spare someone having to scrub his blood out of it. Yennefer sighed again and abandoned her tea in favor of sidling across the little cabin to Geralt’s side, where she dropped to her knees next to him and daintily rearranged her dark skirts before bending over and smacking Geralt’s hand away so she could inspect the wounds.

“Jaskier, come here, please.”

Jaskier wanted to do no such thing. A painful wolf was a bitey wolf, and Jaskier did not want to get bitten, thank you. But Yennefer approached Geralt without fear, helping him roll onto his side and lifting his shirt to expose the oozing puncture wounds. Geralt’s armor seemed to have saved him from all but the longest, sharpest teeth...but that was hardly any comfort.

“Jaskier.”

The bard shook his head in response to Yennefer’s second request, backing away until his calves hit the bench by the table he’d been sitting at and he gracelessly flopped onto it, scrambling not to keep falling and crack his back over the table. Only when Geralt growled, _“Jaskier,”_ from beneath the arm he’d thrown over his eyes did the younger man seem to find any kind of courage. Whether it was fear of the Wolf’s growl or bravery inspired by his pain, he didn’t think any of them would ever know. But it got the job done.

Yennefer, meanwhile, had pulled Geralt’s shirt off and was pushing it down his arms, where she wound it twice around his wrists. “This is hardly the time,” Geralt snarled, but Yennefer ignored the comment and instead shoved the wad of fabric into Jaskier’s hands.

“He won’t fight you,” she advised him, as Jaskier, still speechless, alternated between staring at Geralt and staring at Yennefer. “Use this, his wrists are too wide for your hands. And hold his head.”

“What-”

“Jaskier, he will try to kill me, because that is how two wolves mate. But he will not harm you, because he is not the sort of wolf that will snap at a baby bird.”

“Now, hey-”

Jaskier was cut off by an almighty roar and a sudden thrash from Geralt; Yennefer, grinning, held a two-inch long tooth aloft, met Jaskier’s eyes over the top of it, and then casually tossed it aside to join the other. Before it met the floor, Jaskier noted that it was serrated on one side, and leaked a sinister green discharge from the pores of the tooth. Both the hooked barbs and the venom explained why Geralt was so painful. “Hold him,” she repeated. “There are seven of these, and the venom makes it twice as painful.”

“S-seven-? Does that include the two you’ve pulled already, or-?”

Jaskier was certain that Yennefer was timing her tooth removal with whenever Jaskier started talking, because just then she yanked another one free and Jaskier was forced to put a knee on Geralt’s hands to use one to steady the Witcher’s shoulder and the other on the nape of his neck to keep him down. The one blessing he could count was that Yennefer was methodical, precise, and knowledgeable, and wasted no time when it came to removing the offending teeth. Jaskier’s heart was fluttering like the baby bird Yennefer had accused him of being; Geralt was truly feral in those brutal five minutes in which Yennefer also put a knee on him and struggled to keep him still as she dug the teeth free with her fingers. Geralt, it seemed, was in no mood to help, and the more he writhed in pain, the more he tore his skin against the teeth. At one point, Geralt landed a solid kick on Yennefer that knocked her back several feet; staggering, sliding along the floor carefully to spare the thigh he’d brutalized, Yennefer returned to Geralt and gave him a firm smack across the ribs when he threatened to do it again and pried the final tooth free. The first resulted in an impressive growl that set Jaskier’s bones to quaking; the second brought the most explosive reaction yet, where Jaskier had to truly fight to hold Geralt still while Yennefer painstakingly extracted the beast’s tooth from between Geralt’s ribs. When she finally was able to free all three inches of the fang, she scooted back a few feet before standing up, wincing when her leg took the weight, and disappeared into a little bedroom on the other side of the cabin where she could be heard rummaging around in her things. With her safely gone, Jaskier considered it safe to let Geralt up.

Geralt didn’t go far. Muscles quivering around the injuries, sides heaving like bellows with every breath, skin slicked with sweat, Geralt simply tugged his hands free of his shirt and lifted his head off the floor to land in Jaskier’s lap with a decidedly-grouchy huff. This, at least, was familiar: Jaskier, with his own heart still racing and sweat still condensing on the back of his neck, touched Geralt with shaking hands that nevertheless seemed to ease the edge off the pain.

Yennefer returned several moments later with a tiny corked glass bottle with a thin green liquid sloshing around inside of it and a larger ceramic jar, also corked. Geralt allowed her to smear ointment from the jar across his wounds, even if he snarled on occasion, and then sat up to drink the potion she handed him. “What is that?” Jaskier saw fit to ask, trying to be subtle as he wiped the sweat from his palms on his pants.

“Antivenom, and something for the pain,” Yennefer answered, as Geralt thrust the empty bottle back at her with a muttered, _fuck you both._

“Later,” Yennefer whispered, lavender eyes alight with mischief as Geralt’s amber ones sparked. Jaskier was struck by the sudden realization that he’d never, as Yennefer put it, seen two wolves mate, and if the feat was any as violent as the witch had hinted that it was, he had no desire to stay and witness it for himself.

Geralt’s patience proved to be up by the time Yennefer attempted to wrap his torso; instead of allowing him to fumble the cloth bandages by himself, Jaskier sighed and snatched them away and bound Geralt’s ribs himself. Throughout the process, Yennefer’s smugness simply radiated through the cabin, which Geralt disregarded out of ignorance and Jaskier steadfastly refused to acknowledge out of pride and stubbornness. When Geralt skulked off to find a clean shirt, Yennefer put another kettle over the fire for more tea and needled Jaskier, “Were you bitten?” And when Jaskier threatened to start up again in a cloud of self-righteous fury, she simply laughed and reiterated,

“Trust the Wolf.”

***

One night, when Geralt returned from a hunt with his eyes still black and his blood still hot, Jaskier ordered him to bed. It was the first time he’d ever fought Geralt for dominance. While he lost, laughably, he didn’t have a scratch on him the next day. When the sun rose, and the Wolf’s eyes were amber again, he chuckled, a deep, rumbling, throaty sound that reminded Jaskier of thunder.

He trusted the Wolf now.

**Author's Note:**

> I was so, so overwhelmed by the response to my last fic. This started swimming around and it felt like a perfect companion piece/follow-up to A Tame Wolf, so I spit it out. I sincerely hope you enjoy this as much as the last one. Thank you to everyone who left me kudos and comments! <3


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